(Lisa Jarnot)
O sinning skel misclape thy lock
from frenzied felbred feefs
and longitudes of long tongue fuels
unpebble-dashed deceased.
Unpebble-dashed, unpebble-dashed,
Unpebble-dashed unrose,
up from the theme that random flaps
in news flash rancid hose.
A morning dress of morning field
redrenched upon the sun,
that reads the wobble of the
air, the weary cautious rung.
The red-black innards laid up bare
for all to see and spy,
tradition for the form of those
belingered, cheerful, nigh.
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